


Completion

by ms_katonic



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Lovecraft
Genre: Chaos, Disturbing, Hentai, Multi, Plot What Plot, Tentacles, cthulhu - Freeform, formless monstrosities, lovecraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_katonic/pseuds/ms_katonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the source of all things, the blind idiot god, Azathoth, rages.  But there is one entity in this soulless universe that can bring a brief respite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Completion

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to hell.  No, seriously, I'm going to hell.  I've taken two unspeakable eldritch horrors from beyond time and space, slashed them together as a _couple_ and made the result touching and sweet!  Anyway, here it is.  Squamous non-Euclidean slash.  Incidentally, if you read it and start to think that perhaps Nyarlathotep bears more than a passing resemblance to a certain Potions Master... [you'd be right.](http://www.livejournal.com/users/cluegirl/397961.html):)

At the heart of the universe, nestling in the midst of all the dimensions but belonging to none of them, the eternally gorging centre from which the created universe sprang spews, and continues to spew, an ever-changing array of forms, mutating and pulsing as they assume the shapes that populate the universe. Only a fraction of them are comprehensible to human senses. But they all emanate from this one source, the black heart of everything that lives not just in the centre but in all the spaces between matter.

And in the centre of the blackness lies a throne room, and at the centre of that throne room, sprawled across a vast chaise longue, lies the blind, insane, many-formed abomination that is Azathoth, Lord of All Things. He, if human pronouns and concepts of gender can be applied to the Chaos Lord, has always been here, and always will. Deathless, for one who was never born cannot die. Sleepless, for one who has no eyes cannot sleep. Soulless... for one who cannot know others, cannot love others, cannot support something as spirit-based as a soul.

Nevertheless, Azathoth is not alone. Beings with dead eyes play for him, an unending litany of misery to accompany the Chaos God's mindless thrashings. And the eyes that Azathoth has not, the avatar of chaos, the presence that permeates the whole of creation and does the bidding of the Ultimate One, if Azathoth had enough mind to bid anything, always returns to Azathoth's side eventually.

"Leave us," Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, snaps as he strides into the throne room, still wearing the dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-robed human form that is his personal favourite. The pipers hesitate, but Nyarlathotep's will is as Azathoth's own. It is Azathoth's own. Nyarlathotep waits until the room is empty before approaching the screaming thing on the chair, and kneeling before it. Seeming to sense the dark one's presence, the screaming seems to subside just a little.

"My lord," says Nyarlathotep reverently, lowering his head. Azathoth writhes in what might be considered a greeting.

Nyarlathotep smiles. He has done this many times before. No matter how far he travels, no matter how many dimensions he visits, he always comes back here in the end. Reaching out his hand, he places a palm on the Chaos Lord's skin. In all the aeons, no one other than Nyarlathotep has ever been permitted to do such a thing, even if they had dared to do so. Certainly, none would ever have escaped alive, with their soul and sanity intact. And there is no one else for whom Azathoth will stop screaming and thrashing, no one else for whom he will fall silent and lie still.

No one else who will place their lips to Azathoth's skin and give the monster a kiss.

As his lips touch his master, the source of Nyarlathotep's being and his power, Nyarlathotep loses his human form - it may be his personal favourite, but Azathoth deserves better. Reverting to the formless chaotic mass that all the minions of Azathoth are at heart, Nyarlathotep slides on top, his outline shifting and changing as it meets Azathoth's surface, which changes to meet it, opening for Nyarlathotep as the two loathesome monstrosities merge and become one, undulating in the darkness as they writhe together. Orifices open and close as tentacles and antennae, claws and mandibles, form and reform, penetrating flesh and fusing as the two unite, pulsing in perfect synchronicity.

And for a time, just a brief time, Azathoth's madness lifts and he knows what it is to love and be loved, feels desire and is desired, is born and reborn, and simultaneously dies, all the while shuddering in Nyarlathotep's coils. For a time, all creation is at peace.

Until Nyarlathotep finally withdraws, resuming his human mask again, tenderly stroking Azathoth's surface with a gentleness in his eyes that no other being calls forth from him.

"I will return, my Lord," he says softly. "I promise."

And as Nyarlathotep leaves, and the piping melody starts up again, Azathoth starts to howl and twist on his throne, madness reclaiming him once more as he screams out his despair and pain to the world, knowing nothing except that what fills and completes him is no longer by his side.


End file.
